The Vampire, and After (POV: Faye Kruger)
by WhyTK
Summary: How Carl Kolchak, reporter, changed the life of Fay Kruger, real estate agent.
1. Chapter 1

**FOREWORD**  
In the words of _Monty Python's Flying Circus_ , "And now for something completely differently." Well almost completely different, there _is_ a vampire in it. And the 2 Kolchak movies were produced by Dan Curtis. But it is a completely different cast of characters and a completely different locale, compared to my previous stories.

My deepest thanks to SpunSilk. She wordsmithed [a word I learned from her] the Kolchak parts of this story for me. And without the inspiration provided by _**HER**_ Kolchak stories, I never would have thought of this one.

 ** _Kolchak: The Night Stalker_** **  
"The Vampire, and After (POV: Faye Kruger)"**

My name is Faye Kruger. And Carl Kolchak changed my life forever.

No, make that _ruined_ my life forever.

It all started innocently enough. I met him while showing a house – I'm a Real Estate Agent by profession… or I _used_ to be… before…

He struck me that first day as a 'Can-Do' type of guy; the type I'm usually attracted to, under normal circumstances. He seemed to be confident and competent in his job as a journalist, incredible enthusiasm, and he understood how to easily mold a conversation in the direction he wanted it to go. He skillfully stroked my ego just enough to make me think my old journalism dream from all those years ago, was still a possibility… that it was in fact, in his words, " –– all just _right there_ ; just around the corner, Darlin'. So close you can reach out and **_touch_** it if you try. Close your eyes, now. Do you see it?"

I swear, Carl Kolchak could sell crude oil to the Kuwaitis.

I fell for it, and soon found myself in his hotel room enthusiastically typing up a story. My reporter skills were a bit rusty, I'll admit. But I had a good story to type about a good friend, who happened to have a stunning house, to boot. And I quickly rediscovered that I enjoyed writing. And it was easy to write what I knew.

The phone rang a lot during my first typing session in Carl's room. I obeyed his explicit instructions, and did not answer the calls. I figured he was married, and he didn't want a woman answering if his wife telephoned. He himself was absent for the lion's share of the project. It was pretty obvious that Carl was working on **two** stories at once here in L.A., and fobbing one of them off on me. But I didn't really mind; it was exciting to be working my fingertips instead of my poor feet for once. The thrill of the newspaper deadline was surging through my veins once more, and I was surprised to find, it made me feel more alive.

I wasn't sure what the other story was all about, really it was none of my business. But it sure occupied _his_ mind. So much so, that sometimes when we would be talking I could see right on his face that his wheels were spinning on some far-off place. (Hel-lo, Earth-to-Carl!) His intensity was jarring. It was like trying to discuss my article with a caged tiger. His personality was far too large for the small room where I typed.

I heard snippets. Police actions here in L.A.; Missing persons in Las Vegas. Then that call from his wife did come through, a gal named Toni. His conversation with her I won't even _try_ to describe. I tried not to smirk at his evasion tactics. He was clever and resourceful, that much was apparent enough. He was also someone who set out to bamboozle his own spouse, big-time. I shook my head, and returned to the typing. What must he be like in bed, to have a woman be willing to put up with **_that_** kind of crap? Hmm. I typed with a thinly-veiled expression of disapproval. He hung up the receiver and grinned at me, like a playful boy. Okay, he did have a winning smile… but _still_.

My article came together, pages and pages. I smiled as I held it in my hands on the way to putting it on the Wire, myself (Carl was gone, _again_ ). Then I took myself out for a celebratory glass of wine in the hotel lounge. While I swirled and sipped, I played the fantasy of a life in journalism around in my head. Maybe, just maybe… my life was about to take a turn for the better. Jewel tones of music played in the lounge in the background, and couples leaned into their private conversations, quietly chatting and smiling at each other. I felt a bittersweet pang of loneliness watching them. Or maybe it was the wine.

The following day, I was on top of the world when I arrived at Carl's hotel room. I had just sold Amurta Mira's house for five-oh-five, five. (That's real estate parlance for $505,500.) That was only $20,000 below the asking price, which in the market at the time was outstanding. And I was expecting to celebrate my first article's flight onto the Wire.

Wrong! Instead I walked in on Carl's conversation with his Editor in Chicago. It seems I was mistaken the day before; it was TONY with a 'Y.' Now that I could hear his voice and not Carl's shaver, there was no mistaking that this fellow was male, and an angry male to top it off. I had a sinking feeling when I realized he was yelling about _my_ article.

But Carl poo-pooed his Editor's upset, and redirected the conversation (as always) after the call to what _he_ wanted to talk about. I leafed through the pages of my copy, but watched him from the corner of my eye as he scanned Ma Bell's Yellow Pages, fascinated by the contradictory messages this guy gave off. How could any human be so sure of himself?

My potential new career now in jeopardy, my mind was on the rewrite. But Carl's was not. He shooed me away, interested really only in his other story. Suddenly his stake in my professional future was flimsy, to say the least! I was a tad peeved. By the time I left that day, I had decided he was stubborn, reckless, less than tactful (especially in arranging illegal rendezvous in front of other people!), self-absorbed, and had some kind of a lipstick fetish I did **_not_** want to know _anything_ additional about. I left that evening shaking my head in amazement.

I understood even less as the story goes on, though. The next morning, I saw a lipstick cross on the door (!), and he talked nonchalantly about _leaving town_ "either now, or after twelve years in San Quentin."

Just like that. I stared at him with my mouth open. I didn't know what to think.

Around then, that's when I made the off-hand comment, "Oh well, it's back to Real Estate for me."

That was the moment everything changed. Something in him seemed to snap. The next thing I knew, we were in my office, where we spent the next _ten hours_ on the phone looking for a house that was rented to a beautiful young woman with long black hair. A secluded house. Nothing else about its physical condition seemed to matter. Not even its location! Do you have any idea how many single-family houses are sold and rented in L.A. in a month? Remember, this was not happening with computer search engines; this was happening with metal file cabinets. Again, the room was too small for his personality; and my office is a _large_ room, with many desks.

He was not just out for a story, I began to realize. I'd seen what reporters look like doing stories. This was different. He was on a _Mission_. Driven. Manic.

My co-workers glanced at me sideways as they passed my desk, but didn't ask questions. I hardly had time to come up for air as we leafed through stack after stack, cross referencing for the information we wanted.

"Purchase date May six. National Title Insurance," I said.

"…. 4912 Parker Street," he answered, his index finger following down the list of addresses.

"Buyer is… Mr. Anthony Meyer. Nope. Next." I toned, checking out the data point from the stack of papers I held. "Purchase date May six. Freddy Mack."

"…. 1132 Sequoia Avenue."

"Buyer is… buyer is… lemme see… Miss Candi Barr. Nope. Next." I yawned.

Carl looked up from his papers and reflected with a frown, " _Candi_ _ **Barr**_ _?_ What kind of parents would **_do_** that to a kid?"

I dropped my stack onto the desk with a muffled 'thwump'. "Look Carl, I'm tired and I'm hungry. The listings will still be here in the morning, let's start fresh –"

"No! It has to be now! You're doing fabulously, stay with me, Faye. We can't give up. What about the next one, the one on El Dorado drive? We might be at the point of finding it. It could be just outside our grasp." He pressed on, flipping through a stack of papers. "Just one at a time; purchase date, address, owner's name…"

We soldiered on, although he was gallant enough to order a pizza delivered, "to keep body and soul together." My co-workers, one by one, finished their duties and left for home, each with a significant smile to me as they went.

He seemed to have unlimited energy and focus. I was beyond caring at that point. We soldered on for hours more. Until…

"456 Oceanview Avenue," he read.

"Renter is… is… Miss Catherine Raw––" I started. With the wheels on his chair, he was _right there_ and reading over my shoulder, before I could even blink. _"––lins!"_ we finished in unison.

He banged his hand on the desktop in celebration, and I was jarred alert. His laugh was almost a cackle, and he trumpeted, "Faye Kruger, take me to a _map_!"

When we did find the house on the huge LA map hanging on the wall, I pointed out that it was on the other side of the hill on which Matheson's Cross stands, Matheson's Cross being a major landmark in that area. Carl cried, **_"Perfect!"_** Then he kissed me on the top of the head, grabbed his duffel, and ran out the door.

Silence. He was gone.

I let my weight fall back onto the back of the chair, and let my shoulders sag for the first time that day. My weary eyes closed luxuriously…

I had, at that moment, my first chance that day to think without the distraction of Carl's presence at my side. _What_ had just happened? _What a strange fellow_ , I mused… _so_ _ **focused**_ _on… on… finding… on finding…_

Uh-oh. My eyes flashed open again.

I had the most soul-chilling thought, and my tired head started spinning; "Did I… did I just help a _stalker_ find his intended victim?" I asked the empty room, out-loud, with a higher register than normal.

In a flash, it all made sense. His other 'story', his single-minded obsession around this young woman. His mention of San Quentin prison! How could I have been so blind?! I felt the panic rising up in my chest. Could he be a dangerous type? In a blink I reviewed what I knew of him. I saw his over-sized personality finally discovering her in her safe hide-away, looming over her, threatening her. And I had helped! I had led him to her!

My spinning mind energized my tired body. Fight-or-Flight, I think they call it. I had to do something! Call the Police? What would I tell them; I had not a shred of evidence Carl could be dangerous. Call some big strong bouncer-type friend of mine to offer Catherine a body guard, just in case? Very sadly, my circle of friends included only one guy at the moment, and he was _not_ the big strong bouncer-type. _Strong willed_ , yes, but that was not enough in this situation.

But I couldn't just leave it be – I _couldn't_.

I chose Flight. And then I sprinted to the car and set out to follow Carl to Catherine Rawlins' house.

There was a part of me that wished I had the gun my father gave me as a going away present when my new husband and I left for Los Angeles. Big bad Los Angeles in my father's eyes, hometown to my husband. The gun is a Colt Detective Special, if you're interested in the details. And my father is an Irish cop - in Raleigh, North Carolina, not New York. So all three of his daughters, as well as his two sons, know how to shoot.

Yes, we're Irish Catholic! My maiden name was Ryan. The only part of the stereotype we _don't_ fit is my father and my two brothers are cops in Raleigh instead of New York.

I intended to follow Carl in the sense of "drive to the same place, but after he drove there." But I was lucky. Maybe traffic ahead of him was heavier than the traffic between us, but some how I caught up with him. Not all the way up with him, I was careful to keep a few cars between us.

As I said: I am the daughter of a cop.

Later I learned that I caught up with him because he stopped to buy a big gas can and fill it up. Not filled up his car's gas tank, you understand; a carry can. A big one. Full. If I had known that at the time, I would have stopped at the first pay phone I saw, and called the cops. I would have had the evidence I needed at that point.

When he turned up the road to Matheson's Cross, I realized I had shown him how to sneak in the back way. He was choosing to _sneak_. More evidence against him. Now I _really_ wished I had that gun.

I was torn. Deep in my heart I didn't want to really believe that Carl was evil, that he was out to hurt Catherine Rawlins. If he was trying to kill her, why did he leave ME alive as a witness after I helped him find her? My hands were clammy as I gripped the smooth steering wheel. Doubt and suspicion were at war with my more trusting true nature. Driving along behind him up to that point, I found myself believing in him, which was crazy, or stupid, given the brief time I had known him. It was also crazy, or stupid, given the fact that he had used me. He _had_ : used me to write what should have been _his_ story about Amurta Mira, and afterwards used me to find Catherine Rawlins.

So what should I do now? Assuming now that Carl really did want to hurt this girl…

Go straight after the lout and try to talk him out of it? Yeah, right, and end up dead myself! He hadn't _seemed_ violent during our time together, but you can never be sure with off-balance men. That's the thing with unpredictable men: they are unpredictable.

Find a phone and call the police? How long would that take? How dead would Catherine Rawlins be by the time the cops arrived?

Stay here in the dark behind his field of vision and do nothing? Not one thing? No. That decision was made. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to that poor girl.

I couldn't turn up the road to the Cross after Carl without giving myself away. I drove past that road, and then farther down turned into the driveway of Catherine Rawlins' house. With my headlights off for the last quarter mile, I stopped just a few feet inside the long driveway. I would have some explaining to do if she were home and tried to leave, or if she was out and came home, and found my car in her way. But I had explaining to do when I met her, in any case.

I strained to see something, anything, amiss in the flat blue moonlight. I listened with everything I had. Nothing. Nothing but the wild beating of my heart. I dug the flashlight out of the glove box, my hands were almost useless with nerves. Then I dug the jack handle out of the trunk. It felt heavy and powerful in my hands, and I took strength from the sturdy metal tool. Better said, the sturdy metal _weapon_. Something to even up the odds a bit, hey Mr. Predator?

I slipped off my stylish office pumps, and pulled on the tennis shoes I always kept behind my driver's seat – ever since that time years ago where I had found myself far outside of town looking for a particular property, with a blown tire and nothing but high heels to get back to town with. Thus shod, I took a number of deep lung-fulls of crisp evening air and set off on foot. I took the risk of leaving the driver's door unlocked, in case I had to get back in fast.

Snakes. Like most women, and every man with an ounce of sense, I am terrified of snakes. That was one reason for the flashlight, to light the ground ahead of me even at the risk of giving away my presence. I did keep my hand over the lens in a position that resembled the Vulcan salute, with a narrow band of light emerging through the gap between my second and third fingers.

I moved slowly, my eyes moving back and forth between the ground immediately in front of me, and the driveway farther ahead. If Carl was up to no good, I wanted to see him before he saw me. And if I saw him long enough before he saw me, maybe I would have time to grab the jack handle tucked under my arm. Maybe even time enough to use it.

I approached the house as noiselessly as I could manage but saw no sign of him. Unless he were inside the house already, he should be pretty easy to spot in that light-colored suit of his.

I tested the front door. Locked. I peered in through the dusty glass ––

At that point my world flipped on its head.

A commotion sounded to the right, yelling and hissing in the quiet California evening. I dashed in that direction with all I had, pulling the jack handle into swinging position, and saw the pursuit happening just as I had anticipated. But **she** was chasing _him_.

And she was out for blood.

My mind seemed unable to handle this change in dynamic, and I stood rooted in the spot, unable to run or call out. In their battle, he was defending himself with… with a cross. _Say what?_ And then she turned in my direction for a split second–– and I saw her fangs.

It was like I was moving in a dream, one of the nightmare variety. This was the stuff of horror movies and campfire tales. It was impossible. Impossible. My head shook of its own accord in rejection of everything I was seeing, but my eyes protested that Carl really _was_ there, on the ground and that… that _thing…_ was going for his jugular. But he slammed his metal cross flat on the back of her jacket, and an incensed hiss split the night; the place where the cross had landed was _smoking_ , the thing was writhing on the ground, and Carl was free and scrambling up the incline towards Matheson's Cross.

The she-thing finally got free of the jacket that now carried the black-burned image of a cross and made to follow him up the hill. At that point, I also set into motion. I ran after them. I reached down into my neckline to pull out my gold crucifix, a confirmation gift from my parents I had with me at all times. There was a time when I wore it outside my top, but as crime had gotten worse and worse in L.A., I had moved it out of sight. My fingers were trembling so badly that I couldn't get a grip on the delicate chain of the crucifix. So I grabbed the edges of my neckline with both hands and pulled as hard as I could, ripping my top down the middle to expose the crucifix ... and quite a bit of myself in the bargain.

Then, Carl set Matheson's Cross on fire. Flame roared into the night, a good 40 feet over my head. Yellow light lit the hill side and overwhelmed my straining eyes. I froze again, and a good thing too, or I might have run straight into the line of flame that cut off the she-thing's retreat from the Cross. She fell prostrate on the ground, thrashed around for a bit feeling God-knows-what in the glory at the foot of that brilliant cross, and then lay paralyzed on her back.

And Carl pounded a wooden stake into her heart. With a determined brow and a set jaw, as if it were nothing; as if it were all in a day's work.

I stood frozen in the brush through all of this, my own heart pounding louder than Carl's mallet strikes. This could not be happening! But the police sirens were real, and they pulled me back from the horror land. I saw the police coming over from the other side of the hill.

I turned around and walked away very slowly. I was hoping if I moved slowly enough the police wouldn't see me, not with the firelight in their eyes and all their attention on Carl. I walked until I couldn't stand it anymore. Then I ran. Ran way from the sight, away from the horror, away from what I didn't _want_ to believe.

But I jerked to a stop when I saw a snake lying on the path ahead of me!

Only the primitive danger of almost treading on a snake could have cleared my mind at that point. That's where the world came into focus again, where the horror world and the real world melded in a blink. I screamed when I saw it, laying there in the dim light of a flashlight. Thank God for the flashlight lying on the ground next to the snake. Without it, I never would have seen the snake.

Wait a minute. Where did the flashlight come from? And what kind of a snake can bend itself into a sharp angle instead of a curve?

It was _my_ flashlight. And the snake was the jack handle from my car. Without realizing it, I had dropped them both when I needed both hands to rip open my top as I went running after Carl and the… the…

I grabbed the flashlight and the jack handle and resumed running, afraid the cops had heard my scream and were hot on my heels.

When I reached my car, I jerked open the driver's door. I threw in the flashlight and the jack handle. I was vaguely aware of the sound of breaking glass. I discovered much later that I had thrown the jack handle hard enough to break the right front window.

At the time I didn't even glance in that direction to see what it might be. I was too busy getting behind the wheel and burning rubber for the first two times in my life: the first time when I backed out of the driveway, and the second time when I took off down the street.

It was a dead end street, so I had to go back the way I came. I didn't slow down as I passed the road to Matheson's Cross. It occurred to me much later that an innocent passerby would have slowed down to rubberneck at all the police car lights up that road. Lucky for me no cop was looking my way when I passed. He might have gotten curious and come after me.

About a mile later, a fire engine came around the curve ahead of me. Red lights and siren and all. By then I had recovered some of my wits. I pulled over as far as I could and stopped until the fire engine was past. It was the right thing to do. It was also the smart thing to do: when the firemen found out the fire was arson, they would have told the cops about someone who was departing the scene in too big of a hurry to pull over for a fire engine.

I took a moment to pull together my frazzled thoughts. What I had just seen had really happened. That changed things, a lot of things. Carl must have been looking for her ... for _it!_ ... the whole time he was in L.A. The 'other' story. He must have been planning this from the beginning. The… bloodsucker was dead. What would happen to Carl now? I fled the scene because I knew I couldn't stop the cops from arresting Carl.

So I was going over their heads.


	2. Chapter 2

I became friends with Stewart McMillan and his wife Sally in 1971, when I sold them a house shortly after he was appointed Police Commissioner.

I could get Carl a lawyer later. Right then, I thought Mac could do him more good.

"Mac" - that's what everyone, including Sally, calls him. Except his subordinates, who call him "Commissioner."

When I knocked on their door, Mildred [their maid], opened it. And she said, "Good evening, Mrs. Kru - Oh my God! What happened to you?!"

She screamed those last seven words.

"Mildred?!" That was Sally's voice. It wasn't a full bore scream like Mildred's, but it was loud. Wherever she was in the house, she heard Mildred and wondered what was going on. She came running into the living room.

"Faye! Oh my God! Who did this to you?"

"Did what to me?" And then it dawned on me that maybe I didn't look my best right at that moment. I looked down and saw my ripped top, ripped almost all the way down to my navel. I also saw that the necklace that had been outside of my top was now laying across the crucifix. The crucifix was barely visible behind it.

Would a barely visible crucifix have any effect on a vampire? And the necklace would have been in the way had I needed to grab the crucifix and shove it into the vampire's face. It was a good thing Carl had _not_ needed my help.

"Oh, that," I said. "I did that myself. I had to get to my crucifix." I pulled it out from under the necklace and then took a tight grip on it. "I have to talk to Mac. May I come in?"

"Yes, of course. Come in, come in."

Sally took one arm and Mildred took the other, and they helped me into the nearest chair.

Sally said, "Mac is at the office. They called and he had to go in. Some maniac hammered a wooden stake into a woman's chest."

"His name is Carl Kolchak and he is not a maniac."

"What do you mean he's not ... "

And then I saw it, saw it in her widening eyes.  
I saw Sally putting two and two together:  
Carl drove a _stake_ into a woman's chest.  
I ripped my top open to reach my _crucifix_.

And now I wanted to talk to Mac.

Sally said very slowly, "Faye, please tell me what happened."

"I only want to tell it once. I don't think I have the ... the courage? The strength? Whatever it is, I don't have enough to tell it twice."

And then, finally, I started to cry.

* * *

Sally drove me to Parker Center, headquarters of the LAPD. Before we left, she tried to lend me a blouse to replace my torn top. I refused. I said I wanted Mac to see what I had done. But I did accept a jacket to keep myself covered until we were in Mac's office.

And I asked her to remove my necklace, to get it out of my way. I tried to do it myself, but my hands were trembling again. She took it off and put it in my purse for me.

When we arrived at Parker Center, the desk sergeant said, "Good evening, Mrs. McMillan."

Sally replied, "Good evening, Sergeant. I think my husband is in Robbery-Homicide. Please call him and tell him that Faye Kru ... No! Tell him I'm on my way to his office with a witness in the Kolchak case."

By the time a cop makes Sergeant, he has a pretty good poker face. I learned that the hard way, by playing poker with them around my parents' dining room table, on the nights my Dad hosted the game. Thank God it was penny ante. But I saw the look on this one's face before he suppressed it. So the Kolchak case was all over the building, and it was enough to impress even a Sergeant. But he kept his reaction out of his voice when he replied, "Yes, Ma'am."

(My father is a cop. So he taught his three daughters as well as his two sons how to shoot _and_ how to play poker.)

In the elevator, Sally told me, " _That_ will get Mac to his office, and right now."

Sally was right: Mac got to his office before we did. Another man was with him, a dark haired man in glasses and a suit. I assumed he was a cop, probably from Robbery-Homicide.

Sally is Mac's wife. But when we entered his office and he saw the look on my face, he spoke to me first. "My God, Faye! What happened to you? " Then he remembered the message from Sally that brought him to his office, and he added, "Kolchak! Did he attack you too? If he did, you're lucky to be alive."

I decided on the shock treatment. I took off Sally's jacket to reveal my torn top and my crucifix. Also my bra and quite a bit of skin.

Mac and the other man reacted exactly the way you would expect two men to react to such a sight, even though the wife of one of them was present. Part of me was pleased I could still inspire such a reaction at the age of 41.

My words snapped them out of their trance.

"I was there, Mac. I ripped open my top to expose my crucifix, to help Carl fight the vampire." I pulled the necklace from my purse and said, "I didn't realize this covered most of the crucifix. So it's a good thing Carl did _not_ need my help."

"Faye, that's not funny."

Sally said, "She's not kidding, Mac. If you had seen her when she arrived at our house, you would know that."

Mac stared at Sally for a while, and then at me. Then he finally made a delayed introduction. Maybe he didn't know what else to do at that point.

"Faye, this is Lieutenant Jack Matteo of Robbery-Homicide. He's the officer who arrested Kolchak for murder. Jack, Mrs. Faye Kruger. She sold Sally and me our house.

"Sally, I think you've met Jack before."

Sally replied, "Yes, I have. Good evening, Lieutenant."

Lieutenant Matteo said, "Good evening, Mrs. McMillan." Then he looked at me and said simply, "Mrs. Kruger." Maybe he was content to let Mac deal with Carl's fellow lunatic.

I said a bit more. "Lieutenant Matteo, if you were one of the policemen who came over the hill at Matheson's Cross, then I'm sorry I don't recognize you. The fire was between us and I fled when I saw the police coming. I thought I could do Carl more good at Mac and Sally's house than talking to the police at the scene."

 _That_ got their attention. If I knew that many details, then I really was there.

"Faye, please tell me exactly what happened."

"Please get a stenographer in here, Mac. I don't have the strength to do this more than once."

Mac made a phone call. His secretary and all of the civilian staff who work at Parker Center had gone home long ago. So it was a pretty, black haired, young policewoman who arrived a few minutes later. She came to attention in front of Mac's desk, saluted, and said, "Officer Dorothy Miller reporting as ordered, Sir."

"At ease, Officer Miller." Mac introduced Officer Miller to everyone. Then she sat down, opened her Steno book and took my statement.

I started from the beginning, how I met Carl at Amurta Mira's house. And I told it all, including my motives for following him to Catherine Rawlins' house: my curiosity, my anger at Carl for using me, and my fear that he meant to harm Rawlins.

There came a point when I could no longer sit. For one thing, I was too nervous. And for another, all those hours sitting in my office. Then sitting in my car and Sally's car. So I got up and paced the floor while talking. And I thanked God it was a stenographer, not a tape recorder, that was taking my statement. With a tape recorder, my pacing would have been limited by the length of the microphone cord.

All four of them visibly reacted when I said Catherine Rawlins was a vampire, but none of them said anything. Not right then anyway. The cross examination started when I was finished.

Mac did all the questioning. Lieutenant Matteo said nothing. Maybe because Mac outranked him and I was a friend of Mac's. Or maybe because one crackpot who believed in vampires was enough for him.

Sally, for once in her life, said nothing too. Maybe because I was holding my own with Mac. Or maybe she was waiting to get Mac alone before giving him hell for treating me this way.

It went on and on until the phone rang. Lieutenant Matteo said, "I'll get it, Sir."

"Thank you, Jack."

Lieutenant Matteo went to the outer office and closed the door so he could speak without disturbing the cross examination. But he did disturb it by screaming, "WHAT!?" so loudly we could clearly hear him through the closed door.

All four of us - Mac, Sally, Officer Miller and I - were staring at the door when Lieutenant Matteo came back in and said, "Commissioner, we're needed back in Robbery-Homicide. _Right now, Sir_."

He said those last three words in a tone one would never expect a Lieutenant to use on a Commissioner. The fact that he _did_ use such a tone told Mac they had to go, and right f***ing now.

Mac said, "Officer Miller, you're dismissed. Type up Mrs. Kruger's statement."

"Excuse me, Commissioner," said Lieutenant Matteo. "That ahhh ... That might be premature, Sir."

Mac looked as puzzled as I felt. But he said, "Officer Miller, leave your book here. And don't talk about this, not to anyone. Dismissed."

She replied, "Yes, Sir." She laid her Steno book on Mac's desk, and then all three cops left.

"I wonder what the hell _that_ was all about," Sally said when they were gone.

"Sally, would I be breaking the law if I borrowed Mac's secretary's typewriter?"

"Hmmm ... No, go right ahead."

"Thank you ... Oh, wait a minute. This is _not_ official business, _not_ more of my statement. But I have to do it. And I would need some plain typing paper, not LAPD stationery."

Sally found the plain typing paper in a cabinet near the secretary's desk. I saw various envelopes in there too. I cried, "Oh, I need one of those six by nine envelopes too." I didn't know I needed such an envelope until I saw them.

Sally put the paper and the envelope on the secretary's desk. Then she put her hands on my shoulders and guided me into the secretary's chair.

"Type to your heart's content," she said. She looked at her watch. "Do you want a midnight snack?"

Dinner had been a pizza delivered to my office. I looked at my watch for the first time since ... When? I couldn't remember. Anyway, I looked and saw how long it had been since dinner. My stomach growled as if it could see my watch.

"Yes, Sally. But I hate vending machine food."

"This place is manned twenty-four hours a day, so the cafeteria operates twenty-four hours a day too. I recommend the chicken salad sandwich."

"The chicken salad sandwich it is. And two cups of coffee, please. I don't want to sleep." I reached for my purse.

Sally held up her hand in a STOP signal. "It's on me, Faye. You're sort of my guest here."

"Thank you, Sally."

I typed while Sally was gone. I took a break to eat when Sally returned. And the chicken salad sandwich _was_ good. When Sally was finished, she stood up and said, "I'll be in Mac's office if you need me."

"OK, Sally. And thank you again, for everything."

"You're welcome."

I suspected she went to Mac's office to pace the floor where it wouldn't get on my nerves. She was worried about me and impatient for Mac to finish whatever he was doing and return to his office.

I typed. I did not type nearly enough to fill the whole night, but for as long as it lasted it felt good to be doing something. When I was finished typing, I folded the pages once, slipped them into the envelope, and put the envelope in my purse.

I went into Mac's office to ask Sally if she wanted to get another cup of coffee. I found her sound asleep on the sofa. I envied Sally for her ability to sleep in peace, even after hearing my statement. I never wanted to sleep again. As Hamlet put it, "To sleep, perchance to Dream; aye, there's the rub, ... "

I closed the door as softly as I could, and then paced the outer office waiting for Mac to return. I wanted more coffee, but I didn't want to leave Sally alone, not even in a police building. And I didn't want to dig through her purse for her keys so I could lock the door behind me and still get back in without waking her. So I paced and waited for Mac.

I paced and waited for hours. When Mac returned, he was alone and he looked like ... He looked like I felt when I realized that Catherine Rawlins really was a vampire.

"Mac?"

He looked at me. Then he looked around the outer office and asked, "Where's Sally?"

"Asleep on your sofa. Mac, what's going on?"

"Let's go inside. Sally needs to hear this too."

Mac gently shook Sally awake. She looked at her watch and said, "Jeez, where have you been all this time?"

Mac looked at me and said, "Faye, please sit down."

I sat down next to Sally. I braced myself for what I thought was coming: some dumbass had shot and killed Carl.

Mac got right to the point, at least to start with. "Dr. Quincy did the autopsy on Catherine Rawlins."

"Thank God! Why didn't I think of suggesting that?! If anyone can prove she was a vampire, it's Quince!"

Dr. Quincy, "Quince" to his friends, is the best Medical Examiner in the LA County Coroner's Office. I first met him at Mac and Sally's 1971 Christmas party, their first Christmas party in the house I sold them. Quince called me a few days later and asked me to have dinner with him. Things developed from there. He was my escort to Mac and Sally's '72 and '73 Christmas parties. Which means he zipped up my evening gown when he arrived to pick me up ... and he unzipped it when he took me home.

And then I noticed how Mac was looking at me. And that he had said "Dr. Quincy" instead of "Quince." And he had said it very formally.

I said slowly, "Mac, does that look mean he didn't prove it ... or that he _did_ prove it?"

"Dr. Quincy has found that Catherine Rawlins, assuming Mr. Kolchak is right about the woman's name, we're still waiting for Rawlins' fingerprints from Las Vegas ... "

Mac was beating around the bush, which wasn't like him. "Mac, please get to the point." I said this even though I was afraid of what the point might be.

"Dr. Quincy has found that Catherine Rawlins died at least three years ago. In the words of Dr. Quincy's report, Quote. This is a medical conundrum for which I have no explanation. Unquote."

I stared at him in frozen shock for a long time. I don't know why I was so surprised, she could have been living dead for any number of years before Carl staked her. Finally I said, "Three ... three years?"

"Three years. He also has no explanation for the fact that her body is perfectly preserved, even though it was never embalmed or frozen."

Sally asked, "What about mummification?"

"Mr. Burger asked that same question. Dr. Quincy said, Quote. Mummification is not perfect preservation, as anyone who has seen a natural mummy or an unwrapped Egyptian mummy will attest. Unquote."

"Mr. Burger?" I asked.

Sally replied, "Hamilton Burger. He's the District Attorney of Los Angeles County."

"Oh, right. I've met him at your parties." I did not mention that I had more reason to remember Dr. Quincy than Mr. Burger.

Mac continued. "The good news for your friend Mr. Kolchak is, he can not be prosecuted for killing a woman _last night_ when the woman has been dead for three years. Arson and abuse of a corpse are the only charges that can be brought against him under these circumstances. The better news for Mr. Kolchak is Mr. Burger will not prosecute on those charges.

"In Mr. Burger's words, Quote. In the year of Saints Woodward and Bernstein, I can not prosecute a reporter for abuse of a corpse. Not when the reporter is a ... crackpot who claims the 'victim' was a vampire and the abuse consisted of driving a stake into her heart. _That_ circus, I do _not_ need. Unquote.

"I deleted an expletive before the word 'crackpot.' "

Mr. Burger is a Republican, and a staunch Nixonian.

"So you have released Carl," I said.

"As we speak, Mr. Kolchak is on his way to the airport in his rented car. To make sure he gets there safely, Lieutenant Matteo is riding along with him. He is also being escorted by two black and whites, one ahead and one behind. The one ahead has its red lights and siren on."

"No! I have to talk to him!"

"Faye, I advise you to stay far away from Mr. Kolchak. A man who pounds a stake into a woman's corpse ... "

"Is the man who saved this city from that woman! She was a vampire! If Carl is crazy, then so am I!"

"Faye ... "

"Save it. I'm going to the airport."

"His plane will be gone by the time you get there."

I took a deep breath. "Mac, am I under arrest?"

"No, of course not."

"Are you holding me as a material witness, or moving to have me committed?"

"Same answer."

"Then I'm going to Chicago."

"Faye ... "

Sally, God bless her, interrupted him. "Mac, call our travel agent. Tell him to get Faye a seat on the next plane to Chicago. And when I say the next plane, I mean the first plane _after_ I drive her home to pack and then drive her to the airport."

Sally looked at me and asked, "Faye, when do you want to come home?"

"Tomorrow."

She turned back to Mac. "Tell him to get her a plane home tomorrow. And tell him to get her a room at the Lakeview Hotel, where we stayed when we went to Chicago. I'll call you from Faye's house to get the details from you."

She kissed him. Then she picked up her purse and handed me mine and said, "Let's go, Faye."

"Thank you, Sally." I turned to Mac. "And thank you, Mac."

"Sure, Faye."

I followed Sally out of the office. I was in the doorway when I heard a whirring sound behind me. I looked back and saw Mac feeding the pages of Officer Miller's Steno book into the shredder.


	3. Chapter 3

I packed a suitcase while Sally called Mac to check on my plane and hotel. Then I cleaned up.

I was hoping that Mac and Sally's travel agent had found a flight leaving so soon that I didn't have time for a shower, so I took a towel bath. I put a towel in the sink and turned on the hot water. I stripped while the towel was soaking. Then I wrung out most of the water and rubbed myself with the towel, starting with my face and ending with my feet.

I threw the towel in the bathtub and got dressed. Clean undies and a fresh combo of blue slacks and a blue blouse. I love blue.

Then I put on the metal. First the watch. Then the crucifix. I was about to simply put it on, the same as I've always done when something stopped me. After last night ... I made the sign of the cross, and then put on the crucifix. And this time, I hung it outside my blouse. The airport was safe enough.

Finally, my wedding ring. I still wear it sometimes. For one thing, to help fend off men who think a woman traveling alone is automatically available.

Shoes last. White thong sandals. Flats. I wear high heels at work because clients expect them, but I don't travel in them. On formal occasions like weddings and parties, I obey the rule about white shoes only between Memorial Day and Labor Day. The rest of the time, I love how they look with my clothes. And sandals because it was too damn hot, at both ends of my journey, for closed shoes.

The man in the seat next to me on the plane [it had to be a man, of course, it's never a woman next to me] smiled, extended his hand, and said, "Hi, I'm Claude North."

I did not smile or shake his hand. I held up my left hand, the one with wedding ring on it, and said, "Hi. I'm married." I touched my crucifix and added, "I'm also Catholic, and I take the marital fidelity thing very seriously."

My now ex-husband did _not_ take it seriously.

North replied, "OK. But that doesn't mean we can't have a friendly chat while we fly the friendly skies."

"Yes it does. I've met too many men who thought a friendly chat is a prelude to a lot more. And this is American Airlines, not United."

I pulled my book out of my purse: a paperback of _Jews, God and History_ , by Max I. Dimont. I read it years ago when I first bought it, and I was in the process of rereading it when all this came up.

"A Catholic reading about Jews?" he asked.

"Not all Catholics are Ferdinand and Isabella and Torquemada. And Judaism is passed down through the mother's line, so Jesus was a Jew. And this is heavy stuff, so if you don't mind ..."

It was _such_ heavy stuff, that I knew I couldn't possibly read it in my current condition. But it was handy when I was packing, and in my current condition I couldn't even concentrate on a _Dick and Jane_ book, so this was as good a cover as any.

I hate takeoff and landings. The closer the plane is to the hard, hard ground, the more frightened I am. After all, a crash is when a plane hits the ground. So I had no problem staying awake during takeoff. Once the plane was leveled off and cruising, it was a lot harder. Especially when the sound insulation reduced the roar of the jets to a lulling drone ...

My conscious mind never wanted to sleep again, in fear of what manner of dreams were waiting. The rest of my brain outvoted my conscious mind. I kept nodding off, falling asleep and then waking up when my head fell forward.

Finally I lost the fight. I leaned the seat back, wrapped the strap of my purse around my arm, and risked closing my eyes. That felt so good ... _I'll just rest them,_ I thought. _But I'll try to stay awake any way._

No dice.

 _I found myself in a train station, a crush of people swirled around me, each intent on getting from point A to point B with no regard for me, or for the panic I was feeling without knowing why. Suddenly Carl was next to me, holding a clear goblet of dark red wine (almost black in color), in his hand. His expression was dead serious, and he had a simple instruction: "Take this cup. Drink." I did as I was told. It was bitter, and my eyes started to water. My innocence was gone: the 'safe' world I had always thought existed…had NEVER existed._

 _The scene shifted to the inside of the moving train, where I stood alone. I felt the rattle of the tracks and felt the power of the speed, felt the awkwardness of being slightly off-balance, of being at the mercy of my fate – jostled this way and that by forces outside my control. I clung to the seats with both hands for support, but the seats had vanished, They had been trees all along; gnarled grey trees without leaves, in threatening poses. I was in an ancient forest, or what had once been a forest. I felt so cold._

 _Then I saw her, glaring in the distance and realized why I was afraid. The Enemy. The Enemy was female. Catherine Rawlins was coming towards me._

 _I felt rooted to the spot, my heart and my voice screamed to move, but my feet would not obey. She was running toward me like a predator, but I saw it in abnormal slow motion and had plenty of time to reach down for my tiny crucifix. My fingers thankfully found the delicate chain around my neck, but failed to find the crucifix hanging from it. I fumbled frantically, and in my panic, I yanked the chain free from my neck. No crucifix was on it._

 _My hands flew to my throat, protectively. To my astonishment I felt my crucifix chain there. My head snapped up to see her progress, but she had covered only a third of the distance between us with her terrifying slow-motion sprint. I fumbled for the_ _crucifix_ _, and again resorted to pulling it free to see it; but this time as well, the crucifix had disappeared. She was now quite close. A third time I felt my Adam's Apple, and again felt the dainty chain. I frantically yanked it free again… only to look down and see only gold. She knocked me from my feet with the force of her slow-motion attack and drove her fangs deep into my neck as we fell…_

I woke up screaming.

* * *

At O'Hare Airport, I moved my crucifix inside my blouse. After all, I was about to venture out on the streets of Chicago. And I wanted to surprise Carl with it, if a suitable point arose in our conversation.

From O'Hare, I took a taxi to the office of the Independent News Service. The taxi was a Checker, thank God, so I could really stretch my legs after that long flight. And if my short legs need stretching after hours on a plane, how do people with long legs stand it?

I was not impressed by my first look at the building. I was even less impressed when I entered the lobby and found the elevator didn't work. Climbing the stairs to the third floor, where the INS office was located, in the heat and humidity, I formulated my answer to the building's owner if he asked me to sell it for him: "Tear it down and sell the land."

As I entered the newsroom, a prim man in a three piece suit spoke up, while I wondered, "What kind of a fool wears a three piece suit in this weather?"

He said, "May I help you, Miss?'

I smiled at the 'Miss'. "I'm a friend of Carl Kolchak. He works here, doesn't he?"

At the mention of Carl's name, the prim man's open smile moved quickly through surprise, and then went straight into tight-lipped disapproval. "Well," he told me with a haughty tone, "Your friend is currently getting his 50 lashes… but only with a wet noodle!" He pointed somewhere behind me.

"I beg your pardon?" But then I heard the voice. I had heard it only once before, and heard it on that occasion only because its owner was shouting and Carl had the telephone receiver between his head and his shoulder. But once heard, it was never to be forgotten.

There was a loud repartee happening behind an office door that had this lettering on the glass part of the door:

A. VINCENZO  
BUREAU CHIEF

Carl and Mr. Vincenzo were 'at it'.

"––the order of _authority_ in this newsroom!"

"Don't try playing the Editor Card this time. Not when ––"

"Exactly! You've hit the nail on the head! Editor. Manager. _Boss_ , Carl."

I smiled at the short, prim man and said, "Thank you. But _there's_ the man I'm looking for." I turned towards the office.

"I'll hit **you** in the head with something _else_ Mr. Editor. News! Ever heard of that?"

The larger man shook his head resolutely. "I sent you out west––"

"Nobody who hasn't already spent _way_ too much time in the California _sun_ , cares a _hoot_ about this transcendental–– "

"––to get a story—-"

"I'm **handing** you a story, Ninny!" Carl responded, shaking a thick sheaf of papers in his boss's face. "I typed it on the plane. Do you know how crowded it is in one of those seats with a typewrit––"

"–– that I assigned. _Assigned_ , Carl. Capish? On one _Amurta Mira._ "

Carl ground his teeth. I could hear it as I entered the office, both men so absorbed in their repartee that they failed to see me approach from behind Mr. Vinchenzo. "Tony, " Carl pleaded, "Think! Read it, you'll see! It's the story of the _century_. It's real news, it's what the people want to know about. **Need** to know about! It's––"

"And as your Editor, I can say, with out doubt," he spoke louder to be heard above Carl's desperate rant, "that unless you can put a story on Amurta Mira in my hand this **minute;** You. Are. Fired." He glared at his reporter with his hand out flat in front of him.

Carl had only time to rock up on his toes composing a response to this, before I slipped past the larger man and primly placed the envelope on his outstretched hand. Both men startled at my unexpected entrance, but I smiled my most disarming smile, and said, "Carl, you left Los Angeles in such a hurry that you left _your_ story behind."

His eyes were the size of saucers with surprise. I glowed with satisfaction; _take that, Mr. Cocky,_ I thought. I turned to the Editor and said, "Hello, Mr. Vincenzo, my name is Faye Kruger."

Mr. Vincenzo stumbled to take my proffered hand. "Ah, uh…Please to meet you, Miss Kruger." He seemed to be at a loss to offer more.

I smiled widely, "I met Carl while he was in L.A."

"Oh?" asked Mr. Vincenzo for lack of a better response.

"I thought I would drop this off for Mr. Kolchak, and finish a... _conversation_ we two had started." My eyes moved significantly to Carl's.

"Oh?" asked Carl, for lack of a better response, still struck speechless with my sudden appearance.

Carl at a loss for words. It was quite a sight. And quite a _sound_.

"Yes," I answered, enjoying the effect I was having on both men. Mr. Vincenzo had sucked in his gut and straightened his tie, all unconsciously, I'm sure. Sometimes it is useful being a red-headed Knockout.

I told Carl, "I'm staying at the Lakeview Hotel. Why don't you stop by at 6:00 this evening for dinner?" My affect went serious: "We can _talk_."

Carl nodded weakly, and glanced uncertainly from me to the thick envelope still in the hand of his editor. It was obvious, to me at least, that he had recovered from his surprise enough to worry about what might be in the envelope. More copper pipes and adobe cabanas for all he knew.

I smiled again and told both of them, "I'm sorry I can't stay and chat, but I have a taxi double parked outside. Carl, I'll see you at dinner. Mr. Vincenzo, a pleasure to meet you."

And I sashayed out of the office without a backward glance.

 **NOTE  
** "Fly the friendly skies of United," was an advertising slogan of United Airlines in the '60's or '70's or both. Given recent events, I sure hope that they are no longer using it.


End file.
